the simple answer
by dragondark
Summary: [post game oneshot] He's unsure of everything, but her. [Squinoa]


Notes:Written for 31 Days' theme on August 26th, dedicated to one of the best FFVIII fanfiction writers in the genre. You know who you are. : ) Takes place post-game.

_Your place in my heart is the whole of my heart.  
_-- August 26th

**the simple answer**

He doesn't know how to say it.

It should be simple, and it is, but all the rituals of their world have tumbled onto each other like layers to make a mystery out of simplicity. Locks and keys, hidden enigmas - like the alien's spaceship, like the castle of the sorceress, where all answers were hidden in plain sight, and things beyond what he knew.

Each step in the room is precise, soundless, as if he's moving in a fight he cannot see.

-

It's something he learns by winks and careful words in a slow erosion of understanding. That he would give her anything she asks for is not enough: he should guess things before they come - interpret her slow quirking mouth, the rising arch of her brows, and know.

But it's never been something he's learned - it wasn't even something he knew he wanted, before.

He's unsure of everything, but her.

-

Selphie says: Tell her something romantic. (Which he is not.) Something she can believe in. (Everything that he is, for her.) Something true that will last forever. (Words never last; even love breaks itself against time and all it brings: he knows that better than most.) Something by Shakespeare usually helps. (...)

Irvine says: Buy her pretty things. Nothing useful; girls don't have a use for pretty things in times like these. (But she is not fragile - she is Hyne's only descendent, and he has no use for flimsy, useless things.) And Squall, old son, don't buy her a remodeled Wishing Star. (Which she desperately needs; the wings of the last are chipped, and worn with the blood of monsters.)

Zell says: Huh? Is something coming up with you guys? Why're you asking me? Ask Irvine or Laguna or something.

Quistis says nothing - her face beautifully expressionless like a Chimaera's, with the same unexpressed words that have faded into long and distant memory.

-

He takes Selphie's advice first, with a great deal of prompting and reluctance.

In the library, Zell trails behind, suggesting gold-leafed titles of worn spines with solemn wisdom as he casts hopeful looks towards the helpful librarian, bent over the shelves. Beneath their stumbling exchange, he reads poetry books, considering

_don't wander, for if you should fall  
the unbearable things would break the last  
glittering straw, causing crashes  
of bone and glass and shattering all  
that we have ever known. You are  
the only heart that the dream knows;  
don't go._

and turning pages, closing books. He knows what they mean to say, but they don't say it right.

He knows she won't leave. It's enough.

-

Zell's advice about women is generally worse, though he fails to see how it could be worse than talking about romance with _Laguna_.

"Sometimes," the President says, brightening under the confidentiality of the consultation, "too many words can overdo it. You've got to give them a chance to know it for themselves. They have this saying, 'methinks the somebody doth talk too much', or something. If they know, sometimes you don't need to say anything."

The Presidential Aide gives him a Meaningful Look.

"What he means is," the other translates blandly, "the President's learned from personal experience not to talk too much. But he still does," Kiros adds. Laguna scowls as they hide their smiles between their hands.

Curtly, he nods and takes his leave.

-

In the end, he takes her out himself, to the market sharp with snow and the gilded hotel wedged between streets, telling her old stories half-broken with the awkwardness of his voice. He's not used to the narration, the facts that it presents, and parts are deliberately unfamiliar, as if they might cut him if he held them too close.

She steps away from him as they emerge out of the gates of the town, makes a quick pirouette. Her hands leave dark prints in the snow; he follows. "Did you find out from the Esthar President?"

"Some," he says. "A lot of it was... as if someone was looking for it to be told."

She tilts a bright, guileless look towards him. "A ghost?"

"Maybe."

"A ghost infecting Squall," she says, steady light in the whirling storm. "I wonder if it's catching."

"Whatever," he says, and she laughs in a bright spill of sound.

Sometimes, that's enough.

**end**


End file.
